Beneath The Surface - DNF

Chapter 8

Dream stormed into his penthouse, slamming the door behind him, his jacket thrown carelessly onto the nearest chair. His mind was racing, the frustration from being left on read gnawing at him like a relentless itch he couldn't scratch. After everything that had happened between him and George, the last thing he expected was silence. But George—no, the brunette—had once again proven that he was always a step ahead, a puzzle that Dream was desperate to solve.

"Why the hell am I letting him get to me?" he muttered to himself, pacing the room. The frustration was overwhelming, and for the first time in a long while, Dream felt like he wasn't in control. George had dismissed him, left him hanging, and it burned inside him.

He glanced at his phone, the message he sent still sitting there, unanswered. His thoughts ran wild—was George ignoring him on purpose? Was this part of some bigger game that Dream hadn't figured out yet? The possibilities only fueled his anger, but beneath that anger was something else—something that scared him more than the frustration.

The next morning, Dream's phone buzzed, the sudden vibration snapping him out of his thoughts. He grabbed it off the counter, his heart racing as he saw a new message from an unknown number. Clicking it open, his breath hitched when he saw the contents.

La bonne nourriture est pour quelques-uns. 8 p.m. Tomorrow.

A wave of anticipation mixed with fury washed over him. George had left him on read only to send an invitation to the most exclusive restaurant in the city? The name alone translated to "Good food is for the few," and it was a place Dream had only heard about in whispers. A reservation there was nearly impossible unless you had the kind of money and influence that only the elite could dream of.

George was playing with him—again. But this time, Dream was ready.

The next evening, Dream arrived at the restaurant, it loomed before him, a beacon of wealth and exclusivity nestled in the heart of the city. It wasn't just a restaurant; it was a statement—a place where the richest of the rich dined in private, far away from the eyes of the public. The valet took his car, offering a polite nod as Dream stepped out in his perfectly tailored black suit, every detail of his appearance meticulously chosen to exude power.

As he walked through the grand doors, he noticed something strange—there were no other guests. The restaurant was empty. Dream's eyes narrowed as he stepped further inside, the opulent decor almost mocking in its elegance. Golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft glow over the tables draped in the finest linens. The scent of expensive wine and delicate spices filled the air, but there was no one else in sight.

A waiter greeted him at the entrance, bowing slightly. "Right this way, Mr. Davidson is expecting you."

"Of course, he is," Dream thought as he followed the man to a private table in the center of the room. There, sitting with the calmness of someone who owned the world, was George.

The brunette looked up as Dream approached, his eyes locking onto Dream's with that same infuriating, knowing smirk. He was dressed sharply, but casually—his black button-up shirt open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his forearms. He radiated confidence, and it only made Dream's blood boil more.

"Clay," George greeted him, his voice smooth as ever, "I'm glad you could make it."

Dream didn't respond immediately, his eyes scanning the empty restaurant. "You closed the whole place for us?"

George leaned back in his chair, a glass of wine cradled in his hand. "I thought we could use some privacy."

Dream took a seat across from him, his gaze sharp as he studied George's expression. There was something unnerving about how calm the Brit was, how he seemed completely unfazed by the situation. Dream was used to being the one in control, but here, it felt like George was running the show.